CHAPTER IX.

_TRAVELLING MERCHANTS._

_September 15._

WE have heard nothing from Walter yet, though it is full time. I cannot help feeling uneasy.

Yesterday we had a visit from a travelling bookseller, well-known, as I learn, in these parts. He seemed a man of more than ordinary intelligence, and much gravity, and even austerity of deportment.

"Well, Master Blanchard," said my Lord, greeting him heartily; "what now play-books or romances have you brought us this time?"

"Truly, but few new ones, my Lord," answered Master Blanchard. "I like not the books of that kind lately printed, so well as to make myself very busy in spreading them abroad."

"I thought the Archbishop very careful in the matter of licensing books," remarked my Lady.

"He is," answered the old man, dryly. "He hath forbid the reprinting of 'Foxe, his Book of Martyrs,' and of the works of Bishop Jewell, as well as of the 'Practise of Piety,' a book which has gone through no less than thirty-six editions!"

"By my faith that is being particular with a vengeance!" exclaimed my Lord. "Methinks if all we hear be true, his grace might find other things to forbid than the 'Practise of Piety.' Why, my own mother used and loved that book next to her Bible. I believe between the Papists and the Puritans, the world hath gone stark mad."

"It will be madder yet, or I am much mistaken," said Master Blanchard. "I have good store of paper and blank books, if you need them, my Lord, and some new music-books, and cards of patterns, and the like, for the ladies."

We were all purchasers. I bought a new blank book and some paper, and my Lady gave me a silver pen and a pretty fashioned inkstand. Betty would needs buy a Bible and Prayer-book, as christening gifts for her god-child. Lady Jemima turned over the books of devotion and selected two or three, though she made a very disapproving face over some that she found there.

"But I cannot but think you are misinformed, Master Blanchard," said my Lady. "Why should the Archbishop forbid the printing of the 'Book of Martyrs'?"

"That is a question asked by many people, my Lady," answered the old merchant. "I only know the fact in the case. 'Tis certain the books are to be printed no more, and they have risen in price in consequence. Folks say it is all the Queen's doing, but of that I know nothing."

"It was an evil chance that gave us a Papist Queen!" said my Lord. "I say nothing against the Lady herself, but 'twas a great pity."

"It gives the Papists great confidence," said Master Blanchard. "They are holding up their heads everywhere, and boasting of their favor with the King, and of the great things they will do hereafter. For mine own part I would as soon have an Italian Pope as an English. But least said soonest mended. I have Master Shakespeare's Plays and some of Ben Johnson's, my Lord, if you choose any of them."

I shall value my "Practise of Piety" more than ever, now I know that the printing thereof is forbidden. I have begun to read it over again this very night.

_September 18._

We have had another travelling merchant, but of quite a different sort from Master Blanchard. This was a sharp, alert, and withal somewhat sly-looking little man, profuse of his bows and compliments, who brought ribbons, laces, and all sorts of trinkets and perfumes. My Lord, who is in high good humor about these days, would buy us each a fairing, and he gave me a little ivory and gilt box for sweetmeats—a pretty and convenient toy.

"Now must you have it filled," said the pedler, and taking it from my hand, and first laying in the bottom a piece of white paper, as it seemed, he poured the box full of colored and perfumed comfits; and then closing the lid, he put it back into my hand with a look of intelligence which I did not at all understand.

The mystery has explained itself since, in a very disagreeable manner. I was going down to see a little lame girl in the village, and thinking to please the child, I poured all the comfits out of my box on the table, and was about to take the paper in the bottom to wrap some of them in, when looking at it, I discovered that it was a letter, and addressed to myself. Very much astonished, I opened it, and found it to be a regular love-letter, written in the most ornate and flowing style, and treating of broken hearts, flames, Cupid's arrows, and the like, bewailing my cruelty to the sender, and promising, if I would reconsider the matter, to make it more to my advantage than anything that had ever happened to me. Should I consent, I was to send my answer by the bearer, who was in the secret, and all should be managed with the greatest discretion. This precious epistle was signed "E. S."

I was absolutely stunned for the moment, and knew not what to do, but presently resolving, I carried the letter directly to my Lady, in her own room, and begged her to read it, telling her at the same time how it had come into my hands.

"This is very strange," said my Lady, her cheek flushing as it does when she is displeased. "Have you any idea as to the writer?"

"I have," said I, "but as I do not know for certain, and have moreover no wish to know, perhaps I had better not mention him."

"Do you mean Lord Saville?" asked my Lady, and as I assented; "why should you think of him? Had he ought to say to you when he was here?"

I told her what had chanced at the spring.

"And what did you say to him?" asked my Lady, something sharply. "I fear you must have given him some encouragement, or he would not have ventured to write."

"I boxed his ears soundly, if that be any encouragement," I answered, forgetting, I am afraid, the respect due to my Lady in my vexation: "I only wish I had boxed them harder still."

"So that was the history of his swollen cheek," said my Lady, much amused. "Truly I think you left not much to be desired in that way. And how did you escape from this modern Amadis?"

I told her the farther history of the encounter, adding that I should have spoken to her before, only that I did not like to annoy her.

"Well, well I see no fault to find with your conduct, on the whole," said my Lady: "though 'twas rather a rustical way of defending yourself. However, I hardly know what you could have done. I am heartily sorry for the whole matter—sorry that you should have been annoyed—that my kinsman should have no more respect for me than to attempt an intrigue with one of my family, and specially sorry, that Walter should have made an enemy of him. Despite his gay and careless manner, he hath a sullen and revengeful temper, and is like to be a dangerous foe. I think you had best keep quiet at home, Margaret, till this man leaves the neighborhood. As for this precious missive, we will give it to the flames. You will make a good wife, sweetheart, if you are as frank and open with your husband as you have ever been with me."

So I have kept close house over since, having a good excuse in the great rains. I am confident I saw the pedler in the avenue last night, and as I was going to bed, a pebble rattled against my casement more than once.

I would not go near it, and Ban, the great mastiff, scenting some disturbance, came barking and baying round the corner in such savage sort, that the intruder, whoever he was, beat a hasty retreat. I begged of the cook a good bone for the old dog this morning, and carried it to him with my own hands.

_September 19._

I ventured this morning to go down and see Jenny Lee; and walking on to Corby-End, whom should I meet in the wood near the wicket-gate, but this same pedler. I would not stop, however, though he called to me, and even followed me on the path, asking me in a fawning tone whether I had no word for him.

"You are turning your back on your own good fortune, my pretty lady," he said. "Could you but see the lodging and apparel that awaits you, you would change your tone. I pray you give me a word for my master."

"I will give you this word, not for your master, but yourself," said I, at last. "If you ever dare to accost me again, I will tell my Lord and Mr. Penrose of your practises, and have you set in the village stocks for a vagrant and mischief-maker, as you are."

The fellow was silent, and slunk out of sight. As soon as I got home, I threw all his comfits in the fire, not knowing what charms might be contained in them, though, I believe, a pure loving heart that trusts in God, may set all charms and enchantments at defiance.

It is very strange that we hear nothing from Walter.

_September 28._

I must write, if I cannot speak. Oh that I dared tell the whole to my Lady, or to Madam Corbet, my second mother!

This morning I went down to the Cove to carry some comforts to a sick woman Mr. Penrose had been telling my Lady of, and after I had finished my visit to her, I turned into Jan Lee's cottage. I knocked, and the door was opened to me by Will Atkins, who greeted me with such a perturbed and anxious countenance as made me exclaim at once:

"O Will, have you any news of Walter,—of Mr. Corbet?"

"In sooth, I fear so, and that none of the best, madam," answered Will. "Come in, if you please, and give us your advice how we shall deal with the matter."

He gave me a chair as he spoke, and I sat down, with a curious feeling of being in a kind of dream.

"I was over at Exeter yesterday," said Will, "and there whom should I meet but Tom Andrews, who you remember went away with Mr. Corbet. At first, I could get naught out of him, save that some great misfortune had happened to Walter; so dazed and muddled was he. But by questioning him, I at last made out that his master had been set upon one night, as he drew near to Salisbury, by a party of highwaymen, and, as he believed, murdered."

"You are too hasty, son Will!" exclaimed old Jan, rising from his seat. "The young lady is fainting."

"No, no!" I exclaimed, putting him back with my hand. "I am not fainting. Let me hear all, I beseech you! No one has a better right than I."

Will then went on with his tale. He said he had questioned and cross-questioned the man, and had at last discovered that Tom did not stay to see the end of the fray, but had hastened to save his own neck, and had then been ashamed to show himself. He told a great story of the number and strength of the assailants, and was quite sure that Mr. Corbet and John must have gone down among them.

"And now the question is, what shall we do with this tale?" concluded Will. "I shall myself ride post at once toward London and try to discover the truth or falsehood of Tom's story, which I do not half believe. What shall we do in the mean time about Madam and my Lady? The story may not be true, and then they would have all the alarm and suspense for nothing, and it would be ill for my Lady."

"You are right!" said I. "She must not know it—but how to keep it from her, and from his mother! Have you told any one here?"

"Nobody," answered Will. "I have but just now come home, and was consulting with my father as to the best way of dealing with the matter. He is disposed to treat the whole as an idle tale, made up by Tom to shield himself, and believes that Walter hath dismissed him for some misdemeanor."

"Master Watty never should have taken him," said the old man, "and so I told him. 'Tis a poor rascal and comes of a poor stock, but Watty must needs try to make a man of him. 'Tis always his way, ever trying to make whistles out of pigs' tails!"

"I will make him whistle to purpose, if he has put such a lie upon us," answered Will, grimly, "but I fear there is more in the matter than mere lying. That fine lord who was here last month was no friend to Walter. They have crossed each other's path more than once before this last time, and it would be quite in his way to hire bravos or highwaymen to execute the vengeance he dare not attempt himself. He hath lived in Italy long enough to learn all their tricks. But we lose time in talking."

"What do you mean to do?" I asked, still with the same strange, dreamy feeling, as if the matter concerned somebody else and not myself.

"I shall take horse at once, and ride toward Salisbury," answered Will Atkins. "I can easily find out by inquiring at the inns whether Mr. Corbet hath been there within a month. He is well-known on the road, and always uses the same houses."

"But you will not go alone?" I said.

"No, David Lee will ride with me, I am sure, and I must go to him for a horse."

"And for money. Have you money enough?" I asked, putting my hand in my pocket. It is curious to me now to consider how cool I was. I seemed to think of everything at once.

"I have a plenty for my purpose, Madam," answered Will. "But you look very pale, and your hand trembles," he added, as a blink of sun shone in on my face.

"I fear the keeping this matter a secret, will be a task beyond your strength!"

"No, no!" I answered, hastily. "I can do whatever is necessary. I shall have help, I am sure."

"Aye, that she will!" said old Jan. "I can see it in her face. They call women the weaker vessels, but they ever seem to me the stronger, when there is anything to be borne. But 'tis hard the burden should be laid upon her, poor young maid!"

Will looked at me with such a penetrating yet puzzled glance, that I thought best to tell him all, knowing that Walter hath no nearer or warmer friend than this his foster-brother and old playmate.

"I am betrothed to Mr. Corbet," said I; "we do not make the matter public as yet, but his mother and my Lady are in the secret. You see, I have the best right to know everything, and to help—"

But here, for the first time, I broke down, and sobbed hysterically.

No woman could be more tender in her ministrations than the old sailor. And when I recovered myself, which I did presently, he opened some secret nook and brought out a bottle of wine, of which he would have me take a glass, and indeed I was glad to do so.

"My Lord hath none such in his cellars," said he, with some pride.

"'Tis Canary, which hath made the voyage to South America. Marry, the Bishop who carried it over to St. Jago for his own drinking, little guessed whose palate it would regale!"

'Tis strange to myself how I remember and write down all these trifles. I seem to find therein a kind of comfort and relief.

My Lady noticed my pale looks at supper, and asked me if my head ached again, for ever since the fall of the candlestick, I have been subject to hard headaches. I told her it did, which was true enough, and she bade me go to rest early, and not rise in the morning unless I felt able.

But I cannot rest. Oh that I had some one to whom I could tell all! And so I have. Faithless that I am, is there not One who knows all, who has promised help and comfort according to our needs, and in whose all-powerful hands my Walter is, and must be safe, wherever he is. He cannot go out of God's sight. We are both His children, and love Him, and so all things must needs be well with him, however hard and bitter they may seem now. Oh, how thankful I am that I have learned before this great trouble came upon me to regard my Maker, no longer as a hard taskmaster, exacting so much for so much, but as a kind, tender, loving Father.

"He that spared not His own Son—" His own Son!

_Feast of St. Michael. September 29._

I have been to church to-day, and feel wondrously comforted and soothed thereby. It seemed at first as if I could not go—as if my service would be only a mockery, and a lip-service: but Betty wished to go, and I know what my duty was. She hath become very fond of going to church, and my Lord no longer puts any obstacle in the way.

Her deformity is not nearly so noticeable now that she is stronger and sits up straighter, and she grows pretty every day, while her aptness and quick replies make her an amusing companion, even to her father. I think he will end with being very fond of her, unless some new influence should come in the way. I earnestly hope so, for the poor child loves him with an intensity painful to see, and far more than he deserves. It is a different kind of affection from the quiet, trustful love she bestows on her mother, and in a somewhat less degree, on me. Any chance careless word of his—and there are plenty of them—cuts her to the heart; and any instance of thoughtfulness or affection makes her happy for all day.

My Lord is fond of chess; though, with reverence be it said, he is about the worst player I ever saw, and I have to play my best to ensure his beating me now and then: and I am teaching Betty to play. The more of a companion she can be to him, the better for her in the event of anything happening to my Lady.

There was but a small congregation in church, as usually happens on a holiday. Lady Jemima was there, kneeling on the stone floor, and did not even look up as we came in. Madam Corbet was also present, as indeed she never misses a church service, and old Mistress Parnell. It was pretty to see Mr. Penrose hand the old lady to her place before going into the vestry. Mrs. Priscilla Fulton was present, and, methought, Mr. Penrose did send a glance in that direction.

I found the service as ever, so now in my greatest need, wonderfully soothing and comforting. The words seemed just what I needed—more to the purpose than any words of mine own could be. They always seem to me to be hallowed, and as it were perfumed by the devotions of all the thousands who have used them in the ages past. I am sure no prayers composed on the spur of the moment, such as they say the Puritans are wont to use, would be as grateful to me as these. I could not be sure that another and a stranger would express my wants—nay, he might, even as poor Mr. Prynne used, I know—say what would seem to me downright irreverent and untrue. I should have to hear, and in a manner criticise every sentence, before joining in it. Of course this does not apply to private prayer, though even there I find myself constantly falling back on the well-known and familiar psalms and collects, especially when my feelings are most strongly excited. I must begin to teach Betty the collects.

I could not forbear weeping during the prayers, but my tears were a relief, and I rose up feeling much more hopeful than when I went to church. Mr. Penrose read the whole of the invitation to the Communion, on Sunday. I wish it were old Doctor Parnell. Then indeed I could go to him and open my grief; but I cannot, for many reasons, make a confidant of Mr. Penrose. O that dear mother were within my reach! Sure 'tis a hard fate which sends a young maid away from her mother, at my age. And yet I ought not to say so, considering the many kind friends I have met here. Then, too, I should not have known Walter. However this matter may turn, I shall always rejoice and be thankful that we understood each other before he left home. How much worse would the suspense be to me now, if I did not feel sure that he loves me and thinks of me, wherever he is.

Lady Jemima never rose from her knees during the whole service; and just at the end she fainted and sunk down on the floor. We got her into the air, and by and by she revived, only to burst into hysterical tears and sobs. I was glad the rectory was close by, where she could take refuge from gazers. It turned out presently that she had eaten nothing since noon the day before. I would have had her ride home on Betty's donkey, but she refused, yet with more kindness than she hath lately shown me, saying that the walk would do her good.

She appeared at supper, as usual, though she looked pale and worn.

"Brother," said she, presently, "when do you mean to have a new chaplain?"

"Not at all, as I know of!" said my Lord: "Why should I? Penrose is a good fellow enough, for all his crotchets, and a gentleman beside. You thought there was nobody like him when he first came here."

"He hath changed very much since he came here," answered Lady Jemima. "He is not the same man at all, and I have no trust in him. I want a spiritual guide and director—one in whom I can place confidence."

"That is to say, you want a guide who will be guided by you!" said my Lord, shrewdly. "What is the use of a spiritual director if you only mean to be guided by him just so long as your notions happen to square with his own?

"But if by a man in whom you can place confidence, you mean one who will not fall in love with Margaret, I had best look out for one who hath a handsome young wife of his own. Here hath been Basil Champernoun, with his grave face, asking me about the young lady's family, and so forth. I doubt he is looking out for a stepmother to those black girls of his, and I dare say Wat Corbet, with his Puritan ways, will be the next, if indeed he hath not fallen under the enchantment already!"

Lady Jemima shot at me a glance of absolute fire, but did not speak, while my Lady said, gently:

"It is hardly fair to put Margaret to the blush in this way, my Lord. I am sure nobody could be more circumspect than she, or take less pains to attract admiration."

"Oh, she does not care!" answered my Lord, carelessly. "She knows my ways. Sure 'tis no shame for a maiden to have admirers, especially when she is, as you truly say, so circumspect and prudent as Margaret. I verily think she cares more for Betty's little finger than for all of them."

So all ended well. But, as I recalled the look that Lady Jemima bestowed upon me, I cannot but wonder whether she herself hath any thought of Walter. I am sure she hath something on her mind which makes her very unhappy.

_October 1._

My Lady sent me down early this morning to ask Mrs. Corbet for a pattern. I found her rejoicing over letters from Walter, sent from about Illchester, where he had stopped a day to see some friends of Sir John Elliott's and his own. They were gravely cheerful, as usual, and there was one for me, which I put in my bosom unread. I dared not trust myself to read it under his mother's eye when I thought it might be, perhaps, the last of him that I should ever see.

She asked me kindly of my health, and on my telling her that my head troubled me again, she pressed on me a little flask of distilled and rectified vinegar, very pungent and refreshing, as well as a bottle of some strong sweet water, wherewith to bathe my temples and forehead. If she knew what I know—but I am glad she does not. I should suffer none the less because she suffered the more.

Coming home, I found the church door open, so I went in and spent a few minutes quietly in prayer, and in reading the ninetieth and ninety-first psalms. I wish it were the custom here, as they say it is abroad, to keep the church always open. Surely many, especially of the poor, who have no place of retirement at home, would gladly resort thither now and then for devotion. Methinks there is something in the very air of the place which disposes one to a quiet and worshipping frame of mind.

When I got home, and could be alone, I read my letter—a long one, full of goodness and love—how precious none can tell. Oh, could I but certainly know that he was safe and well!

Lady Jemima met me in the gallery, and after passing me, she came back and said, abruptly enough:

"You have been down to Corby-End, I hear. Have they any news of Walter—of Mr. Corbet?"

"His mother had letters this morning, written at Illchester, my Lady," I answered. "Mr. Corbet was well when he wrote, but the letters have been a long time on the way."

"Aye, no doubt you know all about the matter!" said she, with a kind of scornful bitterness. Then with a sudden change of tone, "Margaret, tell me what you do to make everybody like you?"

"I don't think I do anything, madam," I answered: "and besides every one does not like me. You yourself are my enemy, though I know not why, for I have never willingly or knowingly injured you: yet you are ready to believe every evil report about me, and to put the worst construction on all I say or do—or have done, for that matter."

She colored deeply. "You are too free!" said she, austerely. "You forget yourself very much when you speak thus to me."

"I beg your pardon, madam!" I answered. "I meant not to be so. You asked the question, and I answered it."

"Well, well, let it pass!" she said, impatiently. "What is this I hear from my brother about Mr. Champernoun and yourself?"

"I have heard nothing more about the matter," I replied. "I think it was only one of my Lord's jests. Mr. Champernoun hath never seen me except in church, and when the Bishop was here, and I have never so much as exchanged a word with him."

"He is an excellent man, and it would be a match far above anything you have a right to expect," she continued: "and you might make yourself very useful as step dame to his little daughters. I advise you to accept his offer!"

"Time enough for that when he makes it, my Lady!" I answered, laughing in spite of my vexation. "For me, I am quite content as I am for the present. I do not believe Mr. Champernoun ever thought of such a thing!" With which I made my escape.

Betty's tame robin flew away this morning. She shed some tears at first, but finally said it was natural the poor bird should love the woods and fields best, adding, sadly enough, "I am sure I would fly away, if I could."

"And leave me?" I asked.

"No, I would take you with me!" she said. "And I would not fly away to stay either, but would come back after a while—after I had seen the world."

"Perhaps your bird may come back," said I.

And sure enough, at sunset, the little creature came pecking at the casement, and being let in, flew to his favorite place on Betty's shoulder, and showed great joy at seeing her again. I was as well-pleased as the child to see the truant return. I believe I had made a kind of omen of it.

I dreamed last night of a great fall of snow, and telling my dream to Dame Yeo, she tells me that snow out of season means trouble without reason, and shows that I am or soon shall be fretting myself about some matter without cause. I am sure I hope it is so, but I am no great believer in dreams.

_October 3._

This day brought me two letters, or rather three—one from Dick enclosing a note from dear mother. They are all well at home, though mother says there is fever in the place, and that two have died out of Robert Smith's family. She also tells me, what I am sorry to hear, that Sir Peter Beaumont hath prosecuted John Edwards for holding a conventicle in his house.

It seems several of the neighbors have been in the habit of assembling there to worship, at which time they prayed and spoke to each other on religious subjects, but all in a quiet way. Mr. Carey would have nothing to do with the matter, and was much vexed at Sir Peter's taking it up, saying that it was the next way to make the thing popular, to make martyrs of the promoters thereof: and sure enough the parish is in arms about it, some taking one side and some the other. I am very sorry. We were all so quiet and peaceable in my dear father's time. Methinks Sir Peter would better show his zeal for religion and the church, by leaving off drinking and swearing, and some other worse matters, than by hunting out prayer meetings and the like.

I remember John Edwards was a very strict Calvinist, and he and my father used to have many arguments, but they always ended pleasantly, however much heat John Edwards might fall into.

My father never lost his temper, which I fancy gave him somewhat the advantage. At any rate John Edwards was a good friend to us, and always remembered us when his Warden pears were gathered, we having none of that sort. I am heartily sorry for this trouble which hath befallen him.

My other letter I did not at all understand, at the first. It purported to be from a lady of quality residing near Exeter, who said she had heard of me by Mrs. Carey, and wishing to engage me at a liberal salary—twice as much as I have here—to act as companion to herself and her daughter, promising to treat me in all respects as an equal. If I consented to come, she said, she desired I would not mention the affair to my Lady, between whom and the writer there was an old feud, arising out of family matters, and who would be sure to prejudice me against her; but I was to ask leave to go to Exeter on some errand of mine own, where I would be met and conducted to the gentlewoman's house.

I thought this a very dishonorable way of proceeding, and what of itself would be enough to set me against the author of the letter, but I thought of nothing more till all at once it did seem to me that the writing was familiar. It happened that I had preserved the cover of Lord Saville's first letter to me, and on comparing the hands, they were clearly the same, though the last was a little disguised. Then I carried the letter at once to my Lady.

"Margaret," said she, after she had read it through, "this letter is not genuine. I know no such gentlewoman as the person signing it, nor do I think it to be in a woman's hand."

"Nor I, my Lady," said I, "for the best of reasons:" and with that I showed her the cover of the other letter. "I believe it to be a wicked trap, but it is very hard—" And then my voice failed me and I burst into tears. It did seem very hard that with all my other troubles, I should be so persecuted: and though sure of mine own innocence and right dealing, I could not but feel very much humbled and degraded in mine own eyes.

"It 'is' very hard!" said my Lady. "And it must be stopped. I will myself write to my kinsman and see if this persecution cannot be put an end to at once. You have done well in showing me this letter, Margaret, and you will always do well so long as you are thus open and truthful."

Then she asked me about my other letter, and was kindly interested, as usual, in my news from home: but seeing me still sad, she kissed me, and bade me not to fret over the other matter, saying that all would come right in time.

"Unless I see you more cheerful," said she, smiling somewhat sadly, "I must perforce release you from your engagement and marry you and Walter out of hand so soon as he returns. I like not these long engagements."

Oh, how my heart sank, as my dear Lady said these kind words.

"You are not looking well yourself, my Lady," said I, feeling as if I must say something, and indeed she was not.

"I am not well," she answered, wearily. "My head is heavy, and I have a sinking of the spirits, such as I never felt before in all my life. I do not sleep well, and I dream constantly of my mother and of my dead children. It is well that I have no real cause of trouble or anxiety," she added. "I think I should sink under it, if I had."

Oh, how glad I was that I had borne my burden myself alone. Hard as it has been, and is, I am thankful that I have had the strength to keep it all to myself. I believe the alarm and suspense might have made all the difference to my Lady. And 'tis certain I have been wonderfully helped. Never in all my life have I had such a sense of the nearness of God and of His goodness and love to me, as during this trouble. I have felt—I say it with all reverence—such a freedom with Him—such an ability to go to Him, not only with all my trouble and anxiety, but with all my fretfulness, and rebellion, and impatience, yea and faithlessness, for I have been very faithless at some times.

_October 6._

"Sorrow may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning." For two or three days, life hath seemed to me merely an intolerable burden. It was as if I had carried my load till my strength was spent to the last ounce, and I must lay it down or die. I could scarce attend to my ordinary duties or collect myself enough to answer a simple question; and I felt so irritable and fretful that I longed to shut myself up and see or speak to no one. Doubtless it was well for me that I could not do so, but had my work to occupy me even more than usual; for Betty herself hath not been well, and hath shown more of her old exacting and fractious spirit than I have seen in a long time.

Last night I said to her, "Lady Betty, cannot you help being so peevish and fretful? Do you know you almost wear me out?"

"Do I?" asked the child, as if surprised. "I did not know I was peevish, Margaret, but I feel so tired and uncomfortable."

"And so do I feel tired and uncomfortable," I answered; "and I have a headache, beside, but you would not like me to be as unkind to you as you are to me. Such conduct does not make you feel any better, does it?"

"I don't know," she said, pondering, instead of saying yes or no at once, as any other child would. "Sometimes I think it does. But then that would not be any excuse, would it, Margaret?"

"I think not," said I. "Beside that I don't believe it does you any good. The more you allow yourself to speak crossly and impatiently, the easier it is to be cross and impatient next time."

"Well, I will try to be good," she answered, drawing a long breath; "but oh, Margaret, you don't know how hard it is!"

"Indeed I do, sweetheart!" I said, kissing her upturned face. "I'll tell you what, I don't believe it is one bit harder for you than it is for me."

She seemed a little comforted at that, and presently went to sleep, and I escaped to my room, feeling almost desperate. I was ready to say with the wicked man in the Scripture, "What profit shall we have if we pray unto Him!" My prayers of late had seemed so destitute of any real devotion, and had seemed to bring me so little help. Still I knew it was not right to neglect them, however I might feel. So, it being Friday night, I said the Litany, as my custom is. At the prayer "for all who travel by land or water," I surprised myself by bursting into tears and weeping freely, and my heart seemed to be a little lightened of the intolerable weight which lay upon it.

I slept well, and arose feeling somewhat refreshed in body, and under a strange calmness of spirit, such as I never felt under any trouble before. I seemed, without any effort of mine own, to be settled upon the ground of God's unchanging love, and to be made sure that all would be well, however He should see fit to order the matter.

After breakfast my Lady came in to stay with Betty, bringing her work, and telling me to go out for a long walk, to refresh myself. I was only too glad to do so, and bent my steps to Corby-End. As I entered Madam's room, I found her just opening a great packet of letters, while Will Atkins stood at the side of the fire. The first look at his face told me that he brought naught but good news, which Madam confirmed, looking up with her sweet smile at the moment of my entrance, and saying:

"You see I am well employed, dear heart. I have at last news from London of my runaway boy!"

The sudden relief overcame me, as the trouble had never done, and I sank down and swooned clear away—a thing I never did in all my life before. When I opened mine eyes again, I was lying on the couch, and Prudence was fussing over me with hartshorn and burnt feathers, and what not.

"She is better now!" said Madam's tender voice. "Leave her to me, good Prudence, and by and by bring some little refreshment."

When Prudence was gone, I raised my head, and said, dreamily enough, I believe, for I was still bewildered: "Did Will bring news from Walter—from London. Was he not killed, after all?"

"Killed!" said Madam. "No, dear love! What put that fancy in your head? Walter is safe and well, and sends you a packet by Will. Come now, and be a brave maid, and we will see what he says."

I gathered together my scattered senses at this, perceiving that Madam had not yet heard the story. After saying how glad he was to see Will, and to have his company to London, Walter went on to add:

"But I am sorry he should have been so misled by that miserable coward, Tom Andrews, as to come on such a bootless errand; and sorry, above all, that my dearest Margaret should have had to bear such a burden of anxiety."

"What means that?" said Madam, pausing, and looking perplexed.

"Perhaps we shall see, if we read on," I answered. So she read on:

"It was true, indeed, as Andrews told Will, that I was set upon near Salisbury by a party of villains, but as Andrews ran away at the very beginning of the fray, he had no chance to see how it ended. We were the better armed and mounted, and though they outnumbered us, we soon beat them off, with the gift to one of them, at least, of a broken arm. I would not say it publicly, but I verily believe the man I shot was the Italian who was lately in attendance on one who shall be nameless, at Stanton Court. However, I have spoiled his sport for one while, I fancy. Pray convey news to Margaret at once, my dear mother. Poor maid, how she hath been suffering all this time, though I doubt not her stout heart hath kept her up through all."

"And so you have been going about all this time, bearing this heavy burden all alone!" said Madam: "And all to save me from bootless anxiety! Dear heart, how could you do so?"

"It seemed my duty," I answered. "Your anxiety would not have relieved mine, and I feared the news reaching my Lady's ears. She is far from well, and a little matter might make a difference with her."

"But all alone!" said Madam, again. "And a young maid like you!"

"Not quite alone," I answered, smiling. "Alone, I could never have endured it."

She clasped me in her arms, kissing and weeping over me, and calling me her dear, brave maid, her dear stout-hearted, good daughter, with many other kind words, more than I deserved, but which made me very happy, nevertheless. Then we finished reading the letter, which was long and very interesting, containing much public news, and that not of a pleasant kind, but I could not let it make me unhappy.

Madam would have me eat and drink before I left her, and I was glad to do so, for I had not broken my fast that day. I could not forbear opening my letter and glancing at it as I walked home, through the wood; and so doing, I ran against Mr. Penrose, who was coming down the path.

"Good news wont keep, eh, Mrs. Margaret!" said he, smiling at my confusion. "I wish you joy of your letters from home!"

He is much more free and brotherly with me than he used to be, for which I am very glad. I can't but think Priscilla Fulton hath something to do with this change. I did not think it needful to tell him that my letters were not from home.

As I was going on, he called me back, much to my annoyance. 'Twas to ask me whether I had ever held any conversation with Dame Yeo on religious matters? I told him how I had read to her, and that we had talked over what I had read, adding, what was quite true that she had cheered me up, and done me a great deal of good.

He shook his head. "I know not what to say," said he. "I cannot but fear she is in a very dangerous way."

"Why?" I asked, surprised. "She always seemed to me one of the best Christians in the world."

"I fear she is guilty of the sin of presumption!" said he. "She says she knows her sins are forgiven, and that she is accepted of God."

"Well," I answered—"why not? Don't you read in the church every day that 'He pardoneth and absolveth all those who truly repent and unfeignedly believe His holy Gospel'? And does not our Lord say, 'He that believeth on me, hath everlasting life, and shall never come into condemnation'?"

"'Tis true!" said he. "But yet—"

"I can't stop to talk to you about it now," I said; "my Lady will be waiting for me. But, Mr. Penrose, I don't believe our Lord intends his dear children shall walk through the world with a rope round their necks, as it were. He tells us to rejoice evermore, and that because our names are written in heaven!"

"You believe in the doctrine of final perseverance?" said he, turning back and walking with me.

"I know naught of theological terms," I answered him. "But when I feel God's grace enough for me to-day, why should I distress myself for fear I should not have it to-morrow, or next week, or next year? We are taught to ask daily bread for daily needs, and why not daily grace? I see no presumption in taking our Lord at His word."

"But how can you know that you love Him, or that your faith is sufficient?" he persisted, still going on by my side.

"As I know anything else," I answered. "How do I know that I am glad to get my letter? I don't need any deep self-examination to find that out, I trow!"

"Nor I!" said Mr. Penrose. "It needs only to look at your face. But we will talk of this matter again."

And so, to my relief, he turned and left me, with a kind good morning. He is far more patient of contradiction or opposition than he used to be. He formerly seemed to resent my having any opinions of mine own in such matters. I hope he will not go teasing Dame Yeo with his notions, though, indeed, I believe the old woman is quite able to hold her own with him.

I only glanced at my letter, reserving that and the contents of the package for the time when I should be alone. But though I knew my Lady was waiting, I did steal a few minutes for a fervent thanksgiving.

When I went into the nursery, my Lady smiled, and said, in her usual kind way, but with a touch of gentle malice:

"You must have found your walk pleasant, Margaret?"

"I fear I have been gone too long, my Lady," I answered. "I went to Corby-End, and Madam detained me a little."

"Oh!" said my Lady, significantly. "Well, what is the news at Corby-End? Hath my cousin any tidings of her son?"

"Yes, my Lady," I answered. "Will Atkins is returned, and has brought a great package of letters to Madam, and some to my Lord, I believe, as well."

"Oh!" said my Lady, again. "And doubtless Master Walter is well. When does he mean to return?"

"In about a month," I told her.

"I wish Walter would come home!" said Betty, a little plaintively. "It is not nearly so nice going out riding and walking, when I know he is not here, and there is no use in expecting him. We used to meet him so often, didn't we, Margaret? Mamma, what are you laughing at, and why does Margaret blush so?"

"Never mind, Betty," answered my Lady, composing her face. "Little maidens should not ask too many questions."

Betty looked far from satisfied, but she never disputes her mother's commands.

When I had time to open Walter's package, I found it contained, among other keepsakes, a small thin volume of poems by Mr. John Milton, and a small but beautifully bound and printed prayer-book. "I know you have one already," Walter writes: "but it pleases my fancy to think of you using this book, which is besides of a convenient size for your pocket. I think you will like the poems. I hold not with Mr. Milton in all things, but he has more of the true poetic fire than any other man in this age."

Walter says public affairs are very discouraging. The King, wholly governed by his wife and his own arbitrary temper, vexing and oppressing the subjects with monopolies, and all other little provoking exactions. The Archbishop punishing with the utmost rigor all "innovations," as he calls them, in religion, yet daily making more than any one else, and, as it is believed, urging on the king—Wentworth in Ireland pressing his scheme of "thorough," and as many think favoring the Papists against the Protestants.

I can see that Walter feels greatly discouraged, and fears some great disasters both to Church and State. He says there is a new sort of people risen up, who call themselves "Independents," and believe in a toleration of all men, except it may be Papists—and that they have some strong men among them. He says he does not believe the Archbishop to be altogether a bad man, but that he is weak and arbitrary—two things which he believes often go together—and very narrow-minded; and he says, what I do believe to be true, that foolish people often do more harm in the world than downright wicked people.

He says, also, that the Archbishop's innovations are not usually in matters of any great importance, only in vestments, postures, decorations, and the like, which makes it the more provoking that they should be so pressed upon people as matters of conscience and religion. The two things which have made him the most unpopular, Walter thinks, are the reviving and promoting the book of Sunday Sports, and the forbidding preachers to handle certain points of doctrine, as predestination and the like, on which the Calvinists lay great stress: and that these two have alienated the minds and hearts of many who were well affected, nay, deeply attached to the Church. Then the growing luxury and laxity of the Court—for though the King is a grave and religious prince himself, he does not scruple to employ and forward men of the most openly bad lives, and of course that has its influence; and because the Puritans practise great strictness and purity of morals, the younger men of the Court party affect just the opposite; so that it is coming to be the mark of a fine gentleman to swear, cast dice, and drink, not to speak of worse matters. Truly the nation is in evil case.

Walter's letter was very long, and contained much beside politics. I must not forget to say that he sent me a watch—which is a toy I have always longed for. This one is incased in gold, and is smaller and prettier than any I have ever seen. Walter bought it of a French artisan, a very ingenious man, and one of the persecuted Protestants who came hither from France. It does seem cruel and shameful that they should not be allowed to find rest even here, but should have their worship and the education of their children interfered with.

_October 7._

Madam Corbet sent up the letters for my Lord yesterday, and last night at supper time he spoke of them peevishly enough, saying that the world had run mad, and there was no peace in it for any honest, quiet gentleman, who desires nothing but to live at home and mind his own business.

"Here hath been Sir Thomas Fulton's chaplain telling me that David Lee holds a conventicle at his house, and urging me to prosecute him. But I wont do it!" said my Lord, with an oath, and striking the table with his hand, as his wont is when excited. "Old David is an honest fellow, and his family have been good friends to me and mine these hundreds of years, and I wont interfere with him for any parson of them all. Let him manage his family his own way—and sing psalms through his nose, if he likes. What do I care?"

"But you ought to care, and to act too, so long as he breaks the laws, brother!" said Lady Jemima, sharply. "Why else are you a magistrate and Lord of the Manor, save to execute the laws?"

"You think so, do you?" said my Lord, turning short round on her. "Suppose somebody chooses to bring up the laws, of which there are plenty, against Popish ornaments and books, and after spying into your closet, should come to me with a complaint against you. Should I be bound to execute the laws therein?"

"That's a very different matter!" answered Lady Jemima, looking a good deal discomfited. "The Archbishop sanctions those things."

"The Archbishop does a good many things which he would find it hard to answer, if he were brought before a court of law—as he may be, sometime or other," said my Lord. "Here is Walter writes me from London that the Puritan party is gaining strength every day, and the people cry out on all sides for a Parliament, and no wonder. It is twelve years since we had one, or nearly that. And, by the way, Wat himself had a narrow escape. He was set upon by highwaymen, not far from Salisbury, and came near coming by the worst. Had you heard of that, Margaret? You were down at Corby-End this morning, I think."

I answered quietly that I had heard the story.

"And why didn't you tell it, then?" demanded my Lord, with some impatience. "Think you nobody but yourself hath any right to news of Walter?"

"My Lady was not well this morning," I answered. "I thought the news might perhaps disturb her."

My Lord smoothed his brow. "You think of everything," said he. "You are a good girl, Margaret, and Wat might do worse, after all said and done," he added, as if speaking to himself.

I don't know what I should have done, but that poor Lady Jemima made a diversion by fainting away, in her place, almost scaring my Lord out of his wits.

"It will be nothing," I said, as I was loosing her boddice: "she is better already."

"Do you think it was the story about Wat that upset her?" asked my Lord, like a marplot, as he is.

"Not at all," said I (I fear it was a fib on my part). "She hath had these fits more than once lately. I think they come from going too long without eating. See, her color is coming back already."

The poor lady opened her eyes and gave me a look of gratitude and woe, which went to my heart. I do wish she would be friends with me. But in ten minutes she was as cold and austere as ever.

As I arranged her dress for her, I saw that she wore sackcloth next her skin, and a cross with sharp edges turned inward, which had left their mark on her tender bosom. Alas! Poor lady, my heart bleeds for her!

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